Dreams For Motivation

[Aphetoros]

Act I: Fall



The whip came again, and the elf screamed. His voice echoed throughout the dark cell, and as the lashes continued he felt rising guilt and sorrow bubble through cracks in Pain's steel bulwark. With each crack of the whip, familiar voices hissed in his ears.

You know why you're here, murderer.
You should've tried harder.
Breathed harder.

Death isn't pleasant for wretches like you.

He heard the whispers of his mother and father.

Shouldn't we help him, dear?
No. This is what he deserves.

Some son you turned out to be.

Astus bit back the tears.
It was damn hard, though. Impossible, in fact.
The liquid ran down in lines from his face, dripping onto the floor, which spat and steamed in reply.
The smell of roast-elf was in the air, now, the
coals beneath the man alight once more from below.
He wailed again, the fire seeping through the cracks all around him.

Burn, sinner. Burn for your sin.

And he awoke, breathing heavily. His chest heaved
and he coughed, trying to regain his breath to no avail.
The tiny little shack was filled with smoke, the air so thick with
vile fumes it seemed rather like he'd been painted in place.




He'd done it again.
Burned the bed in his sleep.

One might suppose it's like wetting the bed.
Only worse.


He stumbled from the burnt sheets, his feet and legs covered in
blisters from the fire. Each step stung like poisoned, skeletal
spines digging into soft skin, but he made it to the
door after some stumbling. His lungs begged for
oxygen, and as he slammed the door open with his
fists and fell into the cool night air, he soon was asleep once more.


And this time he was left in an iron maiden.
It was dressed like a beautiful saint, and as the doors of it
closed, she seemed to hug him tighter and tighter until...

Shhlink.

[Aphetoros]

                            Azial, my Silvermoon-minded friend.


Silvermoon-minded?
Couldn't be further from the truth.
He knows the toughness, the blending facade
that is his guise. He knows only the bulwark, that which makes
the puppy feel like a dragon, or a child like the Ranger-General. Silvermoon-mind?

I would sooner hang.

The rope creaked as it swung, and
the body hanging from it was Astus's. He watched it, though,
from outside his body. The noose was frayed and old, and the body struggled against the death-granting grip of the knot.

Snap.

It broke and the body fell.
The sickly thing gasped for
air, hands around his neck trying
to pry open airways that denied
the vital chemicals for which his blood
screamed.

Don't want to die? Do something about it.
Fight for it. You've seen what
it can do. Tasted it.
Felt it.

His flesh seemed to melt, leaving pale-white bone.

And don't you feel the addiction?
The whispers pleading-- begging for your embrace.

Won't you answer them?

                            "No!"

Then you truly do not love her.

It was a wail, cutting through the night-time's quiescent caress.
His chest rose and fell with giant sucking breaths. The other denizens
of the inn stirred a moment, a few of them telling him to be quiet or to
shut up.

He closed his eyes, catching his breath. He
gathered his things and left in the night.

Gossamer puffs of snow drifted from the sky, and he felt
not one of them touch him. His body was already numb from a cold
that rose from deep within him. Not from his body, but from some black
stain on his soul.










It taunted, teased, humiliated and shamed him.















He coughed every so often now, the sickness once more
taking rise over his humanity. He stumbled along the
Winterspring road, and he felt the gnawing hunger, the pain
rising in him like the crimson coals that scarred his mind. His
long, elven hair hung ragged from his hood. The locks were
brittle and unwashed, opaque violet rings surrounding tired
eyes. And yet the tired eyes could not close unless the hunger
was sated.

I am degraded.
Reduced to a parasitic being.
Reduced to some common ghoul.

A beast taking life from others.

Sinful.

             
And how he liked to believe he had a Silvermoon-mind.
Pompous and proud like a normal elf. But that mind was
already marred by the webs of darkness. Incurable curses
that he knew would not leave him.


It was taboo.
The very magic that had
nearly destroyed all of Quel'thalas.
The very magic that had
desecrated the Elven beacon of power.

It's irresistible.

              As surely all forbidden fruit must be.             

The elf continued to stumble along the road, and he felt
his energy begin to wane, and he felt his heart begin to
beat faster. He saw it now, the meal. It was a young woman
elven, by the looks.

Why couldn't it have been something guiltless.
Why not a human, or a troll?

It had to be his own kin.

Cruel insults of fate.
Damnable fate.

She stopped upon hearing the feet following
her. Turning to look, her eyes grew wide with fear.
Presumably, his bone-thin body and gruesome condition
was not an appealing sight.


                            "Are you alright? Oh, Light!"


She ran to him, and he collapsed to his knees.
Giggling gold flowed from her freshly painted nails and onto his body.
The light erupted, an effusion of healing sunshine.


Which seemed only to burn.
The Light caused him to bite his lips, shivering with
fear.

Fear that the Light would reject him.
Expose him to her as such a horrid insect.

He shut his eyes tightly, and when he opened them he felt no better.
His eyes hurt, and purple-black spots dotted his vision. She too knelt,
asking questions that only buzzed in his mind before flowing out the
other ear. He let his muscles release tension, and she caught him.

He lay in her arms for a moment, wondering if he
could merely die in knowing that one being cared
for him.

And yet just as the addict can
only die from an overdose

He knew he wouldn't be able to merely give in
to the hatred that death would bring.

He would feel no repose.
Nor absolution.

In death you will burn.
Burn for your sins.

He knew it would be his time to strike, soon. She looked to
the stars, praying. He wondered of her prayers.
Were they for him, or for her?
He did not ponder it too much, he wanted to think she prayed for him.

I will need those prayers.

                                          There is a fish, that lies death-like at the bottom of the
                                          ocean, buried in sand. It waits for its pray to come near, and then it
                                          springs forth to devour the unwary.

Astus was like that fish, now, and his muscles tensed as he
pushed himself upwards. She shrieked with horror as he wrapped
thick fingers around her thin neck. He held her down as the black
magic bubbled from his lips.

                            "Wh- agh! St-stop, n-no! Pl-!"

She could hardly get out a word.

His hands pulsed with shadows, which
momentarily erupted with emerald light.
The radiance sank into her flesh, at which
her body seized violently. Astus was nearly thrown
from her, but he managed to keep a loose enough hold
while she gasped for air.

Her mouth fell open, and sickly jade swirled from her lips
and into the crisp, wintry, air. Astus reeled the life-energy
into himself, gorging himself on it as the elf's body slowly shriveled.

Reduced to vampiry?

He leaned in to her, the girl's arms still holding him tightly. He pressed his
lips against her cold, broken skin, pretending for a mere moment that
she loved him.

Silvermoon-minded indeed.

[Aphetoros]

Her body was cold, and though wet as it was,
covered by the morning dew, and though he
hardly knew the flesh grasped tightly in his hands,
he felt warmth rising within him.

Sunbeams struck his back, and
he shifted against her soft, skin.
She did not stir, and a slow feeling
of dread rose within him.

I... what have I done?

He stood slowly, his eyes giant balls of leaking cotton.
The girl was decrepit now, her body seemingly drained
of its years. He bit his lip and turned to run with an
exasperated gasp. And yet he stopped mid-run.

                            "Would you leave me, too?"

He turned back to look at her.

I can... fix her.
I can save you.
I will save you.                           
No, I...
Who am I kidding?             

He started away once more before the
rising guilt pulled him back, a vengeful leash
that kept him tied to her.

Thump. Thump.

Someone was coming along the road.

Not pausing to look, he lifted the corpse and trudged away, through the thick snow.

[Aphetoros]

They know...             
Fel damn it, I know they'll know.
Someone will have seen, and they'll know.
Everything.             

He wanted to slide into Everlook
unnoticed and unaccounted for, but
Fate once more had other plans.
The human girl saw him enter the tavern,
eyes bulging and bone-thin. Of course she
would find her compassion for one so cruel.

Cruelty should have kept them away.

A mere twist of fate? Or perhaps
Fate herself was a twisted whore.
She certainly seemed like one, selling
out her favor to many, only to take it
away and
laugh.

Cruelty should have kept out
the healers and miracle workers.

The cruelty was supposed to be the damning shovel.
It was a subconscious plea for the coffin's nail to
finally be hammered into his soul.

She sat above him, her eyes a gentle
purple moss crawling over his skeletal form.
His breaths were mere murmurs, hardly shaking
his form. Beneath that facade, his heart shrieked.

She knows.

He shifted, his eyes blinking slowly open. The lines
of worry in her face were evident, overcast by
the inhuman kindness of her smile.

              "It won't do you good to starve, elf."

She signaled to the barkeep with the
jingle of a coin-pouch. Her lips mouthed, 'water'
and Astus's throat suddenly felt parched.

              "You would... be so kind to one who insulted you?"

His voice was hoarse and and crackling, her's dripping
curiosity. The water was brought, along with a bowl of broth
and she exchanged the coin in her hand for the tray.

              "Insults are, as they say, a copper a dozen."

She must be lying.
She can't believe that.

He rolled in the hammock, coughing as he did so.
Desperately he tried to ignore her--he willed frost
to burst from his shoulder and send her away.
Send the second chance away.
But a cold shoulder only deters the faithless.

              "Eat, you'll need it."

She helped him to sit up, placing the tray on his lap.
His hand shook as he tightly gripped the broth filled
spoon, letting it flow down his throat like molasses at
first. Soon, though, his stomach growled, and he felt
compelled to scoop the food between his lips
like some kind of animal.

Like an animal.

Her lips twitched, smirking at him?
It seemed to him, for a moment, as if
she had secrets buzzing in her skull. Evidence
to send him black letters to poison his
dwindling spirit.

She is a priestess...
She couldn't just, I mean she'd have to...
The Light...

He saw the water in the cup, and
all of his fears washed away. He
gripped the cup in his grubby
little paws, pouring the cold liquid
down his maw.

              "What's exactly wrong with you?"

He was cold for a moment, too numb
with surprise at the question to
respond quickly.

I should have known she would ask.
The good ones always ask before I...

He shook his head of the thought, focusing on the
current matter. He set the tray aside, leaning back into
a resting position.

              "I'm just sick, is all. Been sick for a while."

He shifted, and she pried a bit, like normal.
He deflected the questions.

              "You're... do you know those who can combine
magic and machinery?"

The question seemed to catch her a bit off-guard,
but she wasn't exactly afraid to answer.

              "I might, what exactly do you need to know for?"

He sighed, racking his brain for some sort
of acceptable answer. He was sure he had
one somewhere in his mind.

              "The sickness is lasting... I've been keeping
              it at bay with the arcane, and I wanted to
              make a kind of... rechargeable battery of sorts."

She nodded, the goggles on her
forehead gleaming in the dim torchlight.
She told him to meet her in Gadgetzan--she had the
answers.

And so did Fate.

She stood, covering her eyes once more
with the technological glasses, and the
sound of her heels on the stone floor
carried him to sleep.

Click. Click. Click.

[Aphetoros]

Spoiler:

Darkness was not a comfort, despite
the rumors that those of his persuasion
vastly preferred the shadows. It was true,
he did not enjoy the light, but the sightless veil
of blackness only brought his terror manifest.

He felt weightless, chill breezes leading him along
invisible corridors, the soft tapping of droplets hitting
cobbles when there was not a stone to be seen.

Soon the shadows twisted in his sight, the sparkling
colors of closed eyelids twirling and dancing into
mocking visages. His father, his mother...
His brothers and his sisters...

Ha.

They laughed at him, pointing their fingers as the
ebony threads were doused with color, swiftly woven
as if by the fingers of a spider. A crowd gathered, cheering
triumph and laughing at the ignominious procession.

A casket of white-gold trimmed wood was wheeled through
the streets of Silvermoon like some kind of trophy, a
symbol of triumph over insuperable conflict. Astus's fists pounded at
the sides of the wood, and he screamed for them to let him free.
They were deaf to his horror.

I knew he'd never amount to anything.             

His father.

You were right. He was always a fool.

His mother.

Good-for-nothing whore. Only brought shame to our name.             

His sister.

Never liked him. No one did.

His brother.

He was terrible, I'm glad he's gone!                           

His daughter.

I never loved him.

His...


The crowd parted for the coffin, and as it reached the
Dead Scar's edge, the elves started at it with disgust.
Their burning fel eyes flickered with disappointment, with
hate. They began to dig, and when Astus blinked the
chest containing him was hurtling downwards. It landed at
the bottom of a pit, and he heard the thumps of dirt hitting
the wood above, pressing closer against him, an embrace tighter than
death.

Dnnk. Dnnk. Dnnk.

He felt his cheeks grow cold and wet, beads of sorrow
forming on his scarred and rotten face. The darkness was
suffocating, and it would not let him free. He felt hands grip his
throat-- the tight clench of panic squeezing the air out of him.
He sucked in a deep breath, holding it a moment before exhaling with
quick, shallow pants.

Accept death.
Accept fate.
You. Are. Nothing.

He let out a terrified mewl as the hissing, creaking
voice of decay growled in his ear. He felt the chill seep
through his skin and muscles, penetrating sinew and ligament
until it settled into his bone.

                            "N-no..."

His stomach began to writhe, miniscule lumps beginning to slide
about beneath his flesh. He began to feel sick, partially from
lack of oxygen, and partially from the strange filth causing his body
to carefully seize with twinges of pain.

Death is inside. Accept it.
You. Are. Nothing.
You'd be better off dead.

                            "I know."

As the words slipped between his clenched teeth, the lumps in
his flesh darted in agonizing circles. A sudden burst of warm liquid surged
across his torso and groin, and he wailed in the cruel gnashing of teeth and claw at
his innards. The buzzing of a thousand locusts filled his ears,
the carrion swarm of loathing slowly tearing at his skin and muscle.
Maggots squirmed inside of his entrails, delighting themselves in
a gourmet feast of swollen disease. Parasites crawled along his body,
and his shrieks slowly died into the night.

Bone. The skeleton, the framework, the structure. It was
within him, just as all things. Form, shape, identity. Born of flesh,
and borne of bone, just as life started so it would end. And with
his pale white glistening in the moonlight, his eyes opened.

The beautiful saint hugged him. Tighter and tighter, smiling
with glee at the new infidel she had to cleanse. Blood, flesh, bone.

All is blood. All is flesh. All is bone.

                            "Blood... flesh..."

Harsher and harsher, the smile brighter and brighter...

Bone.

Shhlink.

[Aphetoros]

The corridor was dim, dank
and pervaded by a stench of
disease. It was narrow, moss-
-covered brick flooded ankle-height
with the murky mud and water of
the Swamp of Sorrows.

Curiously, though, Astus had never set
foot inside that vile venue, or at least from
what he could currently remember. The strange
brown-black fog had climbed into his ears,
the misty teeth sinking into his memory and tearing
it away.

              "Hush, now."

It was extradiegetic, almost. The voice a woman's
soothing whisper. A brilliant thunder suddenly shot
through the hallways, golden and hissing with cackling
golden fire. The elf stumbled out of its
path, tumbling into water that had reached his waist.

Wh-what? I can't mo...

The whistling laughter of the bolts of light grew suddenly
silent.
The liquid lapped anxiously at his sides, previously unnoticed... suddenly
salient.

Slowly standing, he used the bricks as his guide.
A low echo rippled through the halls,
a rasping howl that summoned grief from deep inside.
But though soon he stood, his hand sunk into fleshy walls.

His breathing grew faster, the howl screeching far
louder as the effortless galloping of some beast came too close.
Sinking deeper into those walls of sickness--he denied the beast seeking
to tear him from the safety of the comfortable and into the dazzling light of change.

Dare I think this a dream?
What if that other place... the other world i--

              "No."

The denial rolled from his tongue's tip and the lupine creature rounded
instantly on its
brown-maned
violet-eyed
self.
Ears pricked
as if to listen
and snout held high to sniff out its prey. It let out another cry, the
distorted voice of some maiden fading in, out, and above its loathsome sound.

Sharp, black barbs tearing through my throat,

Rays of gold seeping through his skin.

shrieking sunlight breathing down my neck,

Assuring whispers into his ear.

Shadowed sickness wrapping protectively around me.

Triumphant light tearing away layers of illness.

Hot blood running along infested walkways.

Cold phlegm oozing from pale lips.

Gods, Fel, Legion, Kel'thuzad, Kael'thas, Sargeras, Ligh--ANYTHING save me!

              "Light help him."

His heart contracted, the sound of its terrified beating
filling his body, spirit, and soul with fear.
He could hear it, and only it.
Even his own thoughts
were smothered.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

Thump.

Heat, unbearable heat, met his face as,
almost if rising from thick water, his head
shot forth. A face moved away from his,
though his eyes blurred he faintly
remembered her. The name was gone,
as were the memories of her.

Safe...

His breath exhaled as if speaking, though
he only thought. He felt back into the hammock,
swinging as a cool cloth was applied to his forehead.
              "Wha-urh...?"

His lips denied him.

              "Hush. Sleep."

His eyes were met with cool,
white, and instead of slime-covered
Gadgetzan the elf saw those same
black halls.

The Light swept through them, and left
him in blankness, angelic feathers swirling
as if the contents of a pillow dropped on him. And though for
the first time in years, the nightmare had been replaced
with a pleasant dream, far in the distance a shadowy cloud
loomed. Sparks crackled in its midst, as if conceding one victory
with the knowledge it would win the war.

Crrrack.

[Aphetoros]

Elven fingers, tanned by sun and
soft from leisure, curled into a firm
fist. The boulder was no longer
dissolving limestone, but an unbreakable
instrument of youth.

Youth...

It had been so long since the man had
felt such a way-- the hands of plague had
held his strength hostage, until this girl had
saved him; given the best sleep he'd ever had.

Fwapp.

Something had made noise outdoors, rousing
the babe from the cradle. He walked-- shoulders
broad and chest out. The sick, withering weight that
had held him for so long was removed by her... by the Light.

That damned Light.

It didn't seem to matter that
the golden glow from girlish grasp
healed him.
Nor did it matter that
the golden glow from girlish grasp
never wronged him.

To him, he was wronged. His life
scarred by a father's urge to be a knight
and trade his patriotism for a foreign shield.
And that had killed him.

And I could not save him.

What aid had been the Light when restless hands
rent the walls of Silvermoon and cast down the hands
of their beloved prosperity? Their fate was in its hands.
And his people fell through the Light's fingers.

What aid had his weak magics been when such
wondrous creatures shut them down? He had been
so afraid that he would die that day. They would not die.
The damned abominations wouldn't -die-.

And he would not either.

He stood tall, reaching fingers for a pitcher of water, his arm
shaking as he lifted the meager weight. He fell
to the ground, his chest heaving as he coughed.

Weak flesh.

Thunk.

[Aphetoros]

He left without so much as a word.
He left a note on her table and in the night,
he left. He left the arm of compassion and Light.
He left to find solace in the back alleys of the arcane.

Couldn't turn back, could you?

              "Shut up."

The elf whispered to himself, hidden by
prickling hay in the back of a caravan.
He felt the urges coming, and he began to wonder
if the priestess had managed to save him. And if she had...

              "No, no, no."

His eyes shut, breathing shallow and worried.
They didn't know he was there; would they ever?

Crrrrrack.

The mocking howl of a whip
infiltrated his thoughts and he looked up,
watching the dying desert plants drift past.
This land was dead; perhaps as dead as he felt?

Perhaps you should stay here.
The desert matches you, I think.

              "Didn't I tell you to..."

Astus clenched his fists, opening his eyes and
realizing that he was alone in the back of the carriage.
The vehicle was slowing, and he began to panic. It soon
stopped, and there was silence for but a moment.

Footsteps as the driver exited, presumably to check his cargo's safety.
Why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the damned man would
check at each stop.
The elf sat still.

              "Damn idiots, gotta make the ol'est one do all of the lifting."

He grumbled, climbing into the back of the carriage and beginning to inspect the bales
of hay. Hidden by these bales, the elf shot a baleful glance at...
His gaze met open air.
Shuddering, the elf tried to slide towards the exit from his suddenly
unsafe seat.

              "Eh? Whassat, got rats? f**k's sake..."

The elf froze, shutting the brilliant emerald of his
eyes until only
slits remained.
The man began to sift the pile
that hid Astus and in one fluid motion, a spike of
curled black bone flourished with necromantic flair.

The man screamed, stumbling back in fright as
Astus stabbed him over and over
and over.

              "f**k you! f**k YOU! How dare you TOUCH her!?"

One elf stabbed the other, both shrieking.
One in pain, and one in rage.
One final stab, and the light faded from those
Once brightly burning blips that were elven eyes.
One elf fell to his knees as one body collapsed

Over the edge of a balcony into autumn leaves.
Over the edge of a wagon's back into sand.

Sanguine-soaked, the elf began to cry.

              "I didn't mean... he wasn't supposed to..."

You meant every thrust of the blade.

The woman combed ruby red curls as he cried, lying on
fresh-cleaned sheets of white wool. Her mirror was
cracked on the bottom right, and she merely smiled at her son's
broken reflection.

I'm proud of you.

              "How can you be!? How DARE YOU BE PROUD?!"

He whirled around, to his feet as he pushed away the sheets.
His voice a roar, an agonized shriek. Sand settled at his feet and he wailed
at empty air.

[Aphetoros]

The air stank of decrepitude.
The walls crumbled at the touch.
The dirt underfoot crunched like
fresh-fallen snow-- sans winter and temperature.

The elf strode confidently, well-fed and
well-vitalized.
He glared at vagabonds who
dared to approach as he passed,
sending them whimpering to their associates.

The elf was... rather on business. He approached
his rented room of these catacombs, and as he did he barked a
command in Thalassian. The door lit up with lucent turquoise and
flew open as if pried by ghastly fingers.
The energy held the stone apart until he passed, slamming it shut behind
and causing a thick metal bar to fall across the inside.

Soon, love.

Atop a stone bier, simply-carved lay a body.
An elven woman, by appearance. Her hair
golden and wiry, color fading a sickly gray
as time passed. Her skin was pale and nipped only slightly
by decay's teeth, eyes lightless and muscles
beginning to emaciate.

His spell of preservation lasted only for a week, and that week had ended this morning.
He had finished his tool of power-- a wand of black magic that would bind this wretched girl
who's soul he had prematurely taken.

He took the sharpened ebony point of the wand and began to carve
runes into her naked skin. Violet sizzled in the wounds and the skin seemed to weave itself shut,
though heavily discolored by sudden necrosis.

A single rune lay above her heart, a second upon her stomach,
a third and fourth on each leg, a fifth and sixth on each arm, and
a single, smaller rune etched into her forehead. She seemed, if
one did not closely examine her features, to have a third eye balanced precariously
on her forehead's unwithered skin.

He began to whisper, a soft chant that his lips once spoke endlessly in the very streets he was born.
Unearthly light filled his fingertips, the magic filling his form until his eyes turned a sickly, yellow-brown with
its sallow energy. The energy began to spark along his fingertips like unholy lightning, and after a long moment, it turned pale green and
calm. Echoing cries, the sounds of ghosts and spirits alike flooded the chamber as he directed the energy into the corpse.

              "You will live once more!"

The luminescence filled her form, and as the rush of unholy magic flooded Astus's senses,
the corpse on the table's eyes flicked open, a disgusting plague-like mist frothing within lidless eye-sockets.
Her limbs shivered as cold nerves stung with the energy of unlife.

              "Serve."

The elf stood, her limbs coursing with unholy power as
necromantic energy began to fuel her form. Her skin tightened around her as muscles seemed to bulge
with new-found strength. The flesh on her fingertips began to fall away, bone curling into hooked talons as
once pearly teeth cracked into jagged fangs.

I have succeeded.

The creature stared sightlessly forwards, and Astus felt
his vision sway.
He willed the creature to a state of hibernation, the thing falling
to the floor as if comatose. Stumbling to the altar, he collapsed upon it
into blackness.

Endless falling.

He hit the floor, hard, and eyes opened.
The spikes again closed in on his flesh.
Saintly figure closing her embrace around him once more.

Wasn't I just in a crypt?

Where am I?

Not this...

Not again.

Shhlink.

Fin

[Aphetoros]

Act II: A Darker Shadow

Something isn't right with that isle.
Better than that storm.
You sure?             
Would I lie?

              "Take me there."
In the distance, an isle that seemed to suck the light
from around it. Clouds hung about it as if chained
by some unearthly force, and the wrecked keep that protruded harshly from
its gray-sand soil almost spoke for the elf.

              "Where? Ain' no where ta dock 'roun' here."
Astus could tell he was playing a fool.
The ship's captain knew exactly where he was
talking about.

You don't have time to sail somewhere else.
Do you not hear death's call, boy?

The elf flinched.


Mist sprayed over the sides of the small ship,
and the captain made sure to steer clear of
what looked to be a squall some ways west.
              "Might be safer to dock at that isle, there.
              Storm's coming."

The captain shook his head, and kept steering.
              "I paid you to take me where I want to go,
              did I not?"

              "Well, I ain't takin' ye thar!"

              "Why not? What's wrong with that isle?"

              "Jerst look addit an' see fer yerself, boy! 's cars'd!"
The captain turned the wheel, and the ship turned away from the island,
towards the storms. Lightning flickered in the sky, and the elf took a step forward,
placing a hand on the captain's shoulder as he opened his mouth to speak.

              "You'll kill us if we go into that!"

              "Getcher fel-fuckin' hands offa me, ye bastard-ass!"

The captain whirled around, pulling his gun and placing a finger on the trigger.
He took aim at Astus, and the elf raised both his hands as if to surrender.

The elf took a step back, snapping his jaw shut.
The crew looked up at their captain and their passenger,
as if asking if they should intervene.

The captain snarled, looking down at them while
keeping his gun in place.
              "Whatcher sorry-asses doin'? Back ta posts,
              Storm'sa comin', all hands on deck 'fore I toss
              the lottaya inta th' Maelstrom, y'here!"

He turned his gaze back to Astus, and after a
moment long stare, the gun was put away.
He turned away, looking over the rail of the ship
muttering about elves.

Astus felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to
see his mother, smiling. Looking around him, he was
back in Quel'thalas.

Is something the matter, Astus?

              "N-no, I'm fine."
The smell of elven perfume filled the air, and every
so often, the autumn sun glanced down at the blooming
fall flowers.

I didn't think you'd ever let someone
talk to you that way. I'm disappointed.
I thought I raised you better.

She turned away, heading towards a cluster of trees.
Astus turned to follow her, shouting in protest as the ground
slipped away beneath him.

He caught himself on the ship's railing, gasping in surprise
as he dangled over the ledge. The waves reached for him
like teeth, the water affected now by the storm overhead.
The captain had rushed to his aid, and after pulling him
back onto the ship, the pirate spat in Astus's face.

              "Be careful ye rat-ass! An' whadderya shoutin'
              at meh in yer fuckin' elf-talk fer? Lucky I fuckin' saved yer
              nay-good, cock-lickin', bast-"
The captain coughed as Astus's left hand darted forwards and
wrapped around his neck. The elf squeezed as tight as he could,
hissing so furiously that his lips glistened with salivation.

              "How dare you speak to me that way, wretch?!"

The pirate struggled, and Astus drew his fingers away.
The pirate held a hand to his now bleeding neck, and he gasped for air.
The pirate scrambled away, and Astus thrust his wand towards him.
The pirate screeched as he felt insects biting within him, and
the pirate writhed as a beam of sickly yellowgreen sucked away his life.

Lifting his golden, skull-tipped wand, the scally-wag stood, bleeding profusely.
Astus turned to hear footsteps, and as the profane magic turned their captain
gray and rotting, several crew-members had run up the stairs. His arm mechanically retrieved his revolver, and he shot at each of them.

Systematically, the whole ship rose under Astus's control.
The relic he held could not sustain them all, and thus several of his
minions fell to the deck, after a time. The Rod of Undead Mastery.

Waving the rod, the elf turned the ship towards the shadowed island.
He heard no more voices as the zombified crew sailed out of the storm.
He heard no more of his own thoughts.
He stared at the bloodied deck of what had become his ship, and felt nothing.

[Aphetoros]

The elf smiled at the church. It had fallen
into a state of disrepair, and staring at it
he imagined the ages it had stood through.

Braziers were lit in the corners, a black-purple
flame roiling within them. They strange faerie-light
cast no shadows, and yet also seemed to give no true
light.

He stepped down the aisle, examining the pews and the symbols that
appeared almost clawed into the very grain of the wood. Solace
came in knowing that another outcast had studied here; the bishop
who challenged the knowledge of her people, and studied forlorn
philosophy.

The silence hurt. There seemed to be no true noise on the entirety of
the isle, even though Astus knew the Forsaken had lain some claim to this
very place because of the church in which he now stood. It was here that
destiny would claim him. The winds of fate would either carry him to glory,
or to his end.

He stood before the altar, and after another long minute of silence,
he was assaulted by voices of despair and visions of terror. His form
trembled and he feel to his knees, clawed fingers digging into the stone of the
bier. He saw his body, lying cold on the floor of the church; it was from the air.
His father and mother stood over his form, and his mother kicked him in the ribs.

You are nothing.

After some time, the voices subsided, though their
emotions lingered. He sighed softly to himself, and
turned to the altar and started his work. He placed the
skull on the table, and began to carve runes all along it.

[Aphetoros]

The church was lit by a single candle.
Its brilliant violet flame cast no shadows,
and each passing moment begged the moonless
night to devour it and leave all in mystery.

An elf kneels before this altar, wand in hand.
A skull rests upon this altar, menacing and pale.
He is prepared.

The prickling of nerves tugs at his consciousness
as he begins. He knows the danger of this act.
But he knows there is no other redemption.

Tiny cranberry crystals rest in a circle around
the skull, and it seems as if ghostly fingers press
against such an unholy prison as theirs, as if they
begged for escape.

He began to chant, a soft groan of forbidden
language. There seemed a stirring of air, as if
his lips invoked an unwelcome presence.
He acknowledged the conjured force, silently
begging for its acceptance in return.

The flame flickered, and he briefly focused on it.
For a moment, it seemed as if the dim glow had cast
its shadow upon the skull.
The chapel grew cold.

Still the elf spoke these memorized words,
even as he felt the frozen fingers of the ritual pierce his flesh,
a sensation which caused him to shiver.

There were no thoughts.
Merely determination. There would
be plenty of time for thinking in the future.

The runes carved into the bone lit up
a brilliant green. The crystals surrounding it seemed
to blur, and a light from inside them traveled ceremoniously
into the skull through its chipped teeth.

The elf felt, then, that he would be successful.

The gems had gone; the substance composing them
devoured by the dead man's head. The filthy yellow-green
light of the skull overpowered the violet flame, now.

The cold became such that he thought he could see his breath,
but he knew the frost was within him. He felt a lurch within,
a sudden sensation like that of falling as the cold instantly retreated.
It rose from within him, and it seemed to rush out of his chest.

He felt hollow. Emptiness. There was nothing within him,
and that feeling agonized him worse than any physical pain
could.

He collapsed to his knees, suddenly not
powerful enough to support himself.
The skull seemed to stare at him,
grinning bemusedly as his blood ran cold.

He was not sure when it was he realized something was not right.
He tried to breathe, but felt as if his lungs were full of sand.
He felt gravity suddenly pressing harder on him, and he could not move.
The sallow light grew brighter and brighter; it became searing and painful and
yet he could not avert his eyes.

The air in the room was whipping wildly, lashing at him as
he heard what sounded like a mocking laughter in his ears.
The skull hovered high above the altar, tremulous and terrifying.
And a moment later
it shattered.

Necrotic energy exploded outwards, filling the building
and shooting out the broken windows like a hellish firework
display.

The room was once again faintly lit by dim violet.
The elf saw nothing before him, however.

I see only blackness.

He tried to move, but he could not.
He closed his eyes.
The violet flame went out.
He thought he heard a whisper

You are worthless.

And the moonless night consumed his
corpse.

fin